


The Sharp-and-Flat Fall

by so_get_this



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-14
Updated: 2014-06-14
Packaged: 2018-02-04 15:11:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1783525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/so_get_this/pseuds/so_get_this
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This will be a variety of things - friendships, johnlock, sherolly, mystrade... Whatever takes my fancy :P Rated T just so I'm not limited in later chapters.<br/>The individual chapters are usually not linked.<br/>Title is a SHOCKING pun based on 'The Reichenbach Fall' and the fact that these are all based on songs (read it out loud and you'll see what I mean!)</p><p>Originally posted on fanfiction.net</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Lightening Strike

**Author's Note:**

> This chapter describes Sherlock's thoughts in the final moments before he falls. This is inspired by The Lightning Strike by Snow Patrol, and I thoroughly recommend that you check out the song! It's totally awesome (^.^)

 

I stand on the edge. Moriarty's empty, lifeless corpse lies behind me. I am holding my phone up to my ear, and I know that I am talking but I cannot hear the words I say. The thoughts raging in my head are too loud. He is too far away for me to see him properly, but I can picture him in my mind's eye. John. I feel a sudden ache in my chest, and I almost laugh as I realise what it is. I am about to lose you, John, and it is breaking the heart I thought I had buried deep within me. I don't laugh though. Even I can tell that it would be a bit not good.

I can still remember the feelings that raced through me when I first saw you. You were perfect. I told you all about your life, but I didn't tell you about  **you**. About how your eyes looked so haunted, and I wanted to make them smile again. Your hair looked so soft, your lips, so kissable. And in the hours that followed I learned that you were fiercely brave, fiercely loyal. You killed a man to save me, John, and now I must die to save you.

I would have followed you to the ends of the Earth. If anyone had taken you from me I would have hunted them down. And now that I must take myself from you I will hunt down the ones that have forced my hand. I will cut every strand on Moriarty's web until it is nothing but a ruin at my feet. They will  **all** pay.

When you entered my life I knew I could never leave you. Everything was so dull and boring and tedious and then suddenly, there was you. You shone out in the darkness. You never let me down. You gave me a heart, John, and I will forever be in your debt because you showed me how to feel. You showed me that feelings don't have to put you at a disadvantage, that they can make you stronger. But still sentiment will ruin me. And although Moriarty will never win, in a way I have lost. He has made me do something that I would never have willingly done - hurt you. And I am...sorry.

When this is over, I will return to you. I know you will be waiting for me when I do. But if I can't return, if all you have left of me is memories, promise me you will hold onto them? I will always be there, in your mind, in your heart. Just a shadow of myself. Just a memory. Just an echo. But still I will be there. Never forget me?

Already I can feel my mind readying itself for the chase. I know already what I must do. First I must take out the gunmen on Mrs Hudson and Lestrade, then work my way up through the web until only one remains. Your gunman. Sebastian Moran. Jim's right hand man. Or technically his left hand man.

I will destroy them, annihilate them.  **Burn. Them.**  Until they all rue the day their master played his games with me.

This is going to hurt me just as much as it will hurt you. I hear your indignant snort in my head because I know you would never believe that, but it is true. I want to wake each morning to your wonderful complaints about my experiments, and I want to be allowed to kiss you and apologise and promise to stop, and you'll smile and shake your head because you'll know I don't really mean it, but neither of us will mind. I want to never buy you milk. I want to hold you in my arms late at night and entwine my fingers in your hair as you sleep. I want to grow old with you. I want you to smile at me in the way that only you do every single day for the rest of a very long forever.

The next months and years will be so hard for me. I will have to torture and maim and  **kill**. I don't know if I'll have the strength. So I'm going to think of you for every second of it. I can do all these things and more if I can feel your heart inside of me. I am a coward, John, I hide behind fancy words and a childish recklessness, but my dear John, the thought of you is all I need.

I wish you could come with me. I know you cannot.

This is it.

I spread my wings and fall.

Goodbye, John. Goodbye.


	2. Someone Like You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on Someone Like You by Adele :)

This is not what I expected. I knew the past years had been hard on you, as they have been hard on me, but... You are so broken. It scares me. I'm starting to think that I might not be able to put you back together again.  
I visited Mycroft yesterday and (after he'd got over the initial shock of seeing me alive and he'd lectured me on irresponsible behaviour) he started to explain to me what had happened to you after I left.  
"He never gave up on you," Mycroft had said quietly, and my chest swelled with pride. I never doubted you, John.  
But then he told me about your long term girlfriend, and my mood darkened. My showed me the pictures and security footage, and she's pretty enough, I suppose, if you like that sort of thing. But surely this won't last, I thought, and said as much to Mycroft, looking to him for conformation.  
"He's going to propose," is all he replied.

"What can she possibly have that I don't?" I shout, "what can possibly be going on between them that wasn't between me and John?" I am furiously scouring the images of her, trying in vain to figure it out.  
"Mycroft?" I internally wince at the sound of my own voice, so lost and pleading. I wonder if he will tease me for it, but for once he doesn't.  
"She was alive, Sherlock, she helped him through the worst years of his life. And it's not just that you weren't around, it's that you were the cause."  
He places a hand on my shoulder, and I don't flinch away immediately. I let him give me this. For both of our sakes.  
Then I run out of the room, out of the building, and throw myself into the black car waiting patiently for me. I silently thank Mycroft, then curse myself for being so predictable.  
"Baker Street," I snap at the driver.  
As I near my destination a sinking feeling starts in the pit of my stomach and winds its way up to clutch at my heart. I'm nervous. Of John. This is ridiculous. But I can't lock away my emotions.  
I push open the door as the car grinds to a halt outside 221B. It still looks exactly the same, and I have to fight to suppress the wave of nostalgia. It's just a building, I remind myself, but at the same time it's not. Inside those walls are so many memories. Of course it is physically impossible for walls to retain memories, but the point is still there. The last two years have given me a sentimental side. I make a mental note to delete it as soon as possible, knowing full well that I won't.  
I dash up the stairs.  
"John?" I call out. He is standing by the window, staring out into space. He turns and looks at me, and for an instant there is nothing in the world but me and him, and the Fall never happened and I've been here for the past two years, and it's just like any other day... But then his face falls and it all comes rushing back.  
"I thought I was getting better," he whispers, "I thought this had stopped."  
"You're not hallucinating, John." I roll my eyes.  
"That's what they all say," he retorts bitterly.  
"Let me prove it," I murmur. He raises an eyebrow in surprise as I move towards him.  
"What... That's never happened before... What are you doing?"  
"You'll see," I reply smugly.  
I reach forward and wrap my hand around his. John's jaw drops as he feels the physical contact. I smirk and he narrows his eyes slightly, then stiffens as I lean closer.  
"I'm sorry, John."  
"You're real," he chokes out. "You're actually real and alive and..."  
"Yes, John, I am. Honestly, were you always this slow?"  
And that's when he punches me. It's so hard and happens so fast that I don't even have time to register it before I've crumpled in a heap on the floor and he's towering over me.  
"How dare you?!" he shouts. " How dare you come back after two bloody years and expect things to just go back to normal?! You have no idea what I've been through!"  
"Actually, I do..." I start calmly as I push myself up off the floor but he interrupts me with an indignant snort.  
"You? Feel anything? You're a self-proclaimed sociopath! You can't expect me to believe that you actually missed me!"  
"Enough!" I snap, and grab his shoulders, pushing him against the wall. He struggles against my grip, but two years of fighting have made me strong. I can almost feel my eyes blazing with this fiery anger. Not miss him? How could he?  
"I'll show you how much I missed you," I snarl. He stares back at me, angrily, defiantly.  
So I crash my lips against his. In the time it takes for him to realise what's going on a million doubts explode in my head, a million what ifs. And then he's kissing me back, wrapping his arms around my waist and pulling me closer and suddenly I can't think anymore. I slam his wrists down against the wall, and I know he could escape from this if he wanted to, but he lets me take control, he lets me overpower him, and my god but if that isn't just the sexiest thing ever. He gently touches my lips with his tongue and I surprise both of us by moaning gutturally into his open mouth. He tastes of regret and lust and unadulterated pleasure of being alive. I know that I would never - could never - grow bored of this.  
And then, all too soon, he pushes me away. I fall onto the sofa, my lips raw and chapped, my heart racing, my eyes black with pure desire. The exact same as him.

"That... Shouldn't have happened..." He says finally. "Damn it, Sherlock, I have a girlfriend, a fiancée-to-be! I even bought the bloody ring!"  
"I don't understand," I whisper, confusion leaking into my voice, "why would you say it shouldn't have happened? You clearly wanted it just as much as I..."  
He turns to me and roughly places his hand firmly over my mouth.  
"The world doesn't revolve around you, Sherlock. And in my defence I am still trying to get my head around the fact that YOU'RE STILL ALIVE!"  
He glares at me furiously for a minute, and then we burst into laughter.  
"God I missed you," he says with a sad smile as he sits beside me and rests his head on my shoulder.

I almost sigh with relief as I feel the weight of his head against me. It feels so good just to be near to him again. My mind slows down as I listen to John breathe in and out and in and out...  
"Why come back now?" John asks after a few minutes of companionable silence.  
"I've been taking out Moriarty's men. They were going to kill you, so I... Disposed of them." I shudder slightly at the memory. John looks at me as though he's seeing me for the first time.  
"You did all of that for me?" he whispers in awe, turning his head towards me. I nod, not quite trusting my voice. My heart starts pounding in my chest as he leans closer, closer, closer, until I can feel his breath ghosting against my lips.  
"Thank you," he murmurs. I close my eyes and... A tinny little tune sings out into the room. John jerks away from me as if he's been shot, and stares blankly over at the desk where a mobile is ringing. He shakily walks over and reaches for it just as it cuts off. He stares at it for a minute or so, then lifts it to his ear and dials to his voicemail.  
"You have one new message," the system declares. "Press 1 to listen to your message, press 2 to manage saved messages, press 3..." John presses 1 and then turns to look at me as the message starts.  
"Hi John, it's Mary." There is a pause. "Ummm... I know you want to be alone today, and I get that. I really do, but I wondered if you'd eaten yet today, and if you want to come over for dinner? There's a new Chinese down the road that I now you wanted to try out, and I'm going to order take out. So come over if you want something, or if you just want some company. It's fine either way. I... I hope you're ok." There is another pause, longer, and I start to wonder if she even has anything else to say. Then finally she whispers quickly, "I love you," and ends the message.  
There is an almost deafening silence as John slowly ends the call and places his phone in his back pocket.  
"I should go," he says, "to Mary's." I nod.  
"I don't think you should come," he adds sharply, and I try not to let him see how much this hurts me.  
"Of course,' I reply, like this is the most natural thing in all the world. "I'll... I'll be here."  
"I will come back," he says quietly.  
"I know." This is a lie. I've never been so unsure of anything in my entire life.  
He looks at me. Closely. Carefully. Lovingly...? And then he turns and walks out of my life.

I now understand the word brokenhearted. My heart feels like it has shattered into a million pieces. Ragged, sharp, irreparable.

 

* * *

Over the next silent, lonely weeks that follow I find myself thinking back over all our cases. Back over every deduction I ever made, every time he praised me. Every chase. So many memories in so little time.  
I close my eyes and enter my mind palace. I turn left out of the main hallway into the collection of rooms that belong to John. 'Collection' in that sentence is defined as 'half of the left wing'. 'Half' in that sentence if defined as 'most'. Each room is a different shade of blue. My favourite is the one that matches his eyes, the one where I have cataloged memories of every laugh, every smile, every look. I could stay in there for hours. But I know I can't.  
I leave that room and turn to walk down the corridor. So many doors, I think, maybe too many?  
I stop short at the end of the corridor as I find a new room. I didn't put that there, I think, what is this? The door is deep purple in colour, and as I place my hand on the handle to open it I feel warmth spread through my whole body. Curious. The walls inside are not purple, but a deep red. Almost the colour of blood. The colour of passion. I mentally frown, and attempt to delete that thought, but I find I can't. There is nothing in the room except a large black safe. I set to work cracking it, but find that it is already unlocked. I open the door and a wave of emotions rush over me. Pleasure, safety, lust, embarrassment, happiness, pain, desire... And then, buried deep at the back, there is the memory of soft lips pressing against mine. I sigh.

So many times over so many cases our lives were truly in danger. And every time it felt like death was waiting around the next corner, I was more scared of losing you. And every time it felt like life was permanent, like we were invincible, I was walking on sunshine because you were safe. When. As with you my mind would race from elated to infuriated to angry to giddy with excitement. And I had to fight to keep those emotions off my face. Only once did I slip. I run through my palace and eventually find myself standing outside a door of the palest blue, behind which is the hall that I have dedicated to our cases. I go in, and find myself surrounded by books. I make my way between the twisting shelves until I reach the section I am seeking. The Hounds of Baskerville. The memory I wish to find is of when we sat by the fire in the Cross Keys Pub.

_I was so scared because I knew that there was no hound and yet I had seen it with my own eyes. It was the first time in my life that I doubted my own mind, and that scared me. And then you got up and walked away and I was so terrified that I couldn't breathe. I feared losing you more than I feared losing myself. But the next day you accepted the apology that you saw in my eyes. And we became stronger as a team, as friends, as partners. It was at this moment that I realised why I kept you around, why I couldn't let you go. I knew that I could never tell you though, not because you are straight but because I am a coward._

I replace the book on the shelf and pause for a moment, thinking over what I had observed next. I began to see your pupils dilate and pulse increase and breathing become erratic whenever I stood too close. And so I started experimenting. I would watch you as you walked around the flat as I pretended to be in my mind palace, and I noticed how you were content to sit with me for hours on end, how you'd brush your finger over my shoulder or hair as you walked past. How long had you been doing that without me noticing? I would watch you as you slept, and I noticed a pattern in your dreams. Invariably you would have a nightmare (of varying degrees of severity) once or twice a week. Every other night you dreamt happily. I had no clues as to the content if these dreams until one night you mumbled my name. I froze, thinking you had awoken and seen me, but then you rolled over and breathed out deeply, and I realised you were dreaming about me. After that, not a night went by that I didn't watch you at least for a while. I couldn't stay away.  
We had so many good days. But I knew, as I stood on top of St Barts, that I would have to let you go. And now you've truly left me, you're with Mary now, and I will never get you back. Just as I think this, I hear footsteps on the stairs.

_Too heavy to be female, so not Mrs Hudson or Molly, can't be John, therefore... Greg? No, he's at Scotland Yard. Mycroft, then. Great._

But it isn't. As soon as he starts to push open the door I realise it has to be John. Or is that a foolish hope? Turn my head and almost scream with relief. John Watson. My blogger. Come back at last.

_Stubble lines his cheeks, hasn't had time to shave this morning, or lack of care about personal appearance? Clothes not matching, just thrown on, coupled with wet hair, must be raining, forget umbrella, and so left in a hurry. Bags under eyes, didn't sleep at all last night, no, slept for an hour and a half, but hasn't slept properly in weeks. Suitcase bulging behind him, half hidden, ashamed almost, so he got kicked out by Mary..._ Wait, what?

He smiles at me sadly as I look at him quizzically.  
"She forced me to choose," he says. I just keep on staring at him.  
"Choose?" I croak out.  
"Between you and her." My heart skips a beat, my mind racing.

_So she's forced him to either leave her or leave me. Unlikely he would be here if he'd chosen her, she wouldn't have let him come, unless he's come to collect his things, but impossible his suitcase is already full. Can't be her suitcase, far too masculine for her, so she isn't moving here. So he must have chosen me. Even with this flawless logic I find myself shaking. I can't lose him. Not now. Oh please, if anyone can hear this thought, don't force me to lose him now, not after everything we've been through, not after everything I did to save him, don't let it all have been for nothing._

"Who did you choose?" I ask, trying (and spectacularly failing) to keep my tone light.  
He stares at me incredulously, then walks over to me. "I'm here aren't I?" he whispers huskily. I feel my breath catch in my throat. Part of my mind is trying to analyse, trying to deduce, but all I can think is  _he chose me he chose me he chose me_. How is it that he can affect me in this way? He reaches up and brushes his fingers against my cheek, then pulls me against him, his head resting on my chest.  
"I'm sorry," I breathe into his hair as his arms wrap around me.  
"It's ok," he replies, the words muffled against me. I chuckle softly. I can't believe this is happening, can't believe this is real.  
"I made a mistake, John. I hurt you. I broke you. And you still came back."  
"Of course I did, you idiot," he holds me tighter, then raises his head. "Sher?"  
"Yes?"  
"Kiss me?"  
I am more than happy to oblige.

* * *

_Neither of them can see the lonely woman sitting at her kitchen table, holding a photo in her hands. It's nothing fancy, just a camera-phone shot, but his smile is so beautiful and so real, and her lips are pressed against his cheek, both of their faces lit up and shining with happiness. A single tear rolls down her face.  
Mary had known when she met John Watson that he was so broken and that it was likely all he saw in her was that she wasn't unattractive and was kind and didn't ask questions - more of a nursemaid than a girlfriend, if she was brutally honest with herself. But still she smiled at him, and loved him. She cooked him dinner and watched tv with him and held him close at night when his demons threatened to take over. She fixed him, and then she let him go. And although she knew, deep down, that it was he right thing to do, it still hurt. Oh god it hurt. But John had a shot at happiness now, and that was the important thing. Right?  
Mary knew that there was no way she could ever have been in a lasting relationship with a man who was irrevocably in love with someone else, knew he could never have been happy with her, not really. She was a strong, independent woman, and she was a fighter - had been all her life - and she knew that she would get through this as she had before. She knew all this and more, yet somehow that couldn't quite take away the pain. But she would get through this. Eventually._

_For every love found there is a love lost, and Mary Morstan knows that better than anyone._


	3. If You Ever Come Back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on If You Ever Come Back by The Script :)

Oh Sherlock.

Today was your funeral. It's only been 3 days since you... Well, you know... And already I was forced to sit through a whole bloody hour of people talking about you. Mrs Hudson sat weeping on my left, Mycroft sat silent on my right. For once he didn't have a single thing to say to me, which is lucky, because I don't know if I would have been able to stop myself punching him. It was Moriarty who killed you, but Mycroft provided him with the perfect ammunition. Your own brother betrayed you, and if he hadn't you would still be here. I can't forgive that. I can't forget that.

Not many people turned up, Sherlock, not many cared enough, but those that did seemed to think that they had the right to pretend they knew you. They didn't know you like I did. Never like I did.

After it was over, I went home and put the kettle on - more as a distraction than anything else. It was so quiet without you, Sherlock. It was only after I'd finished my tea that I realised I'd made you a cup and put it in your place - simply by force of habit. I made a dead man a cup of tea. It's still there, cold, unwanted. I don't have the heart to tidy it away.

No one will ever convince me that you were a liar. No one will ever convince me that you were a fake. Ever. You could be that clever, you  _were_  that clever. Only you could be such an annoying dick all the bloody time. But Sherlock, even if you were a liar, even if you were a fake, just stop it, stop this. Come home. Please. Come home to your blogger and I'll hold you and I'll never let anything take you from me ever again. Just come home.

I still talk to you. Remember how even when I was away you'd pretend I was there? And then you'd be surprised when I didn't know what you'd told me.  _It's not my fault you weren't paying attention_ , you'd say, and I'd roll my eyes incredulously, because who talks to somebody who's not there? I know now. You talked to me because you missed me, in the same way that I now talk to you.

I pretend that you can hear me, Sherlock, because it helps me forget that you can't. I still text you, even though I know they only go to the phone lying dormant on the mantelpiece. I just can't stop trying to contact you - mostly just silly things, like  _get milk on the way home_  or  _please stop stealing my jumpers for your experiments_ or  _remember: the earth goes round the sun,_  and it does help me. I imagine you reading them and the ache in my chest lessens, just for a little while.

I call you too, let it go through to voicemail just so I can hear your sarcastic, beautiful voice. Yeah, I know, pathetic. But honestly I'm past the point of caring.

_Congratulations, you have reached my voicemail. I'd bet money that this is the most intelligent thing you have succeeded in doing today. If this is John, text me, and before you ask, no I won't get milk. Boring. If it's Lestrade or Molly, text John. If it's Mycroft, piss off and go complain to somebody else about your failing diet... Like John! If you're a client, you'll find John's number on his stupid blog, so go and bother him instead. John, I still don't see why I have to create a message here anyway. It's tedious. I hope you're satisfied._

God I miss him.

I miss being woken at 3am to the sound of that blasted violin. I miss equipment cluttering the kitchen table. I miss you ignoring me while you try to figure out a particularly tough case, or when I nag at you to eat or sleep. I miss the insults, the arguments, the fights. I miss it all because it was what made you undeniably and irrevocably  _you_. And I wouldn't have swapped it for all the world.

I wish you were alive, I wish I could beg you to come back. Because I would, Sherlock, I would get down on my knees and beg. Whatever I did that made you fall, whatever I said, I take it back. God I take it all back. Just please, please, come home.

The others have all told me to stop hoping - that you're never coming home. They say it's not possible for you to be alive. But people say such stupid things. You taught me that.

I sometimes wonder if you are actually dead. Not often, but often enough. I know that the only thing keeping my heart beating, keeping me breathing, is that I know I have to be here when you come home. Failure isn't an option. I mustn't let the doubt in.

If you walk through that door now, I won't say a word. I'll just smile and put the kettle on and then press my lips against yours. I won't hate you, I won't shout, I won't cry. I won't do anything except be glad that you're home. We can pretend that nothing ever happened, we can go back to before you fell, we can ignore the last few days.

Just walk through that door.


	4. Vanilla Twilight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on Vanilla Twilight by Owl City :)

John Watson is 19, and he is beautifully, startlingly happy. He is lying under the stars in the middle of a field just outside the city. The skyline to his right is a clutter of tall, majestic buildings, but out here everything is pure and clean and simple. He smiles, soothed by the unfamiliar calmness, and closes his eyes.

* * *

"Ummm... Hello?"

John finds himself being shaken awake. He sits up groggily to find a tall, dark-haired boy, no older than he is, squatting in front of him.

"Hey," he grunts, reaching for his phone to check the time. 1:06 am. He yawns, stretches, and pulls himself to his feet.

"Thanks for waking me," he grins sheepishly, "I probably would've slept there all night!"

"Yes, you would have," the boy replies, looking at John curiously. "Why were you here?"

"I was looking at the stars," he smiles wistfully. "What's your name?"

"Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes. What's yours?"

"John Watson."

"Nice to meet you," Sherlock says rather stiffly, holding out his hand for the other boy to shake. As John takes it, he feels a peculiar tingling in his fingertips that seems to warm his whole body and settle over his heart.

"Why are you so fascinated by the stars?" Sherlock asks.

"Come lie with me and see," John replies. And so they lie and whisper to each other as the night turns from black to navy, then part once the sun starts to rise, painting the sky in pinks and oranges and reds.

"Can you come back tomorrow night?" John asks hopefully.

"Of course," Sherlock replies with a shy smile.

They meet up every weekend they can. Sometimes John is too tired, sometimes Sherlock cannot escape from the clutches of his brother, sometimes it pours with rain. One time John points up at the sky to show Sherlock something, and as he lowers his hand back to the hot, sunbaked ground he finds not dust beneath his fingers but cool, pale skin. Neither of them can bear to move their hand away. After that, they always touch in some way - holding hands, arm against arm, leaning heads on shoulders or stomachs - just as a comfort, just to know the other is there.

On the nights John doesn't make it, Sherlock doesn't stay, seeing no point to the stars without him. On the nights Sherlock is absent, John lies there, staring miserably up at the heavens, waiting in vain. He interlaces his own fingers together, pretending he is not alone. The stars hold no joy for either of them now without the other.

* * *

One weekend, Sherlock doesn't show up at all. John walks out of the city on Friday night, Saturday night, Sunday night, only to find the field empty. Sherlock does not appear the next weekend, or the next. John finds himself miserable for every day he is away from his friend. He wonders if he will see Sherlock again. So when the next Friday comes, he doesn't leave the city, but instead winds his way through streets and alleys until he finds a park, and he sits and gazes up, catching glimpses of stars and moonlight through the smog. And John thinks of Sherlock. He thinks of smiles at midnight and dust beneath bare feet and fingertips touching his. And he sighs, closes his eyes, and makes a wish.

And suddenly, he is there. Sherlock stands no more than ten metres away, his dark hair ruffled gently by the wind, the moonlight curling over him, his eyes so young and yet so old. And then John is running and is met more than halfway by strong arms that wrap around him and hold him close.

There are so may questions spinning in John's head.

_Where have you been? How are you here? Is this a dream?_

But then those eyes are staring straight into is and suddenly John can't think except  _he is here and this is the moment_. He reaches forward and links his hand with Sherlock's, whose lips part slightly at the contact.

They stand that way for what seems like both forever and no time at all, relishing in the other's presence. And then John stands on tiptoe and presses his mouth against the taller boy, and the whole world just stops.

Sherlock runs his fingers through John's hair, and gasps as John touches his lower lip with his tongue. The kiss is soft and hard and chaste and passionate all at once, a wordless expression of everything they feel, and their heads are spinning with the rush of pure euphoria.

They can taste the sky on each others lips.

And there is nothing in the world but this.

Now. Now. Now.


End file.
